Sarah Court Read Online Free

thirty years,” Colin’s
saying to anyone who’ll listen. “His dad before and
his dad before that. He’ll be there to drag whatever’s
left out . . .”
    The sun slits through roadside poplars. Feel
of cocktail swords stabbing my corneas. Scan for
bodies: tough on corduroy roads as they get squashed
between raw timbers and all’s you can identify them
by is the crushed eggshell of their skulls. Parkhurst
smiling that sunny mongoloid’s smile. A face pocked
with old acne scars looking like a bag of suet pecked
at by hungry jays. By no means charitable but some
men invite uncharitable descriptions. Snap on the
radio. If it’s quiet enough I might hear the kid’s
thoughts, which I envision as sounding much like a
boom microphone set inside a tub of mealworms.
    Other night I drag myself out of bed in the wee
witching hours. Lumbago playing havoc with my
spine. Went to the fridge for a barley pop. There
was Parkhurst standing over my son. When I asked
what he was doing he gave me his doleful emptyheaded look.
    “Thought he’d stop breathing, or . . .”
    A smashed septum made Colin snore loud as a leaf-blower. It hit me what the kid said. Not stopped breathing—as in, he was worried. Stop breathing—
as in, he wanted to witness the dying breath exit his
lungs.
    If a man makes his living courting death, is it any
surprise he should acquire as companion a human
maggot waiting to feast on the inevitable?
    “Colin said you went to university,” he said now.
    “Jot that down in your notebook, did you? I
majored in geology.”
    “So why don’t you teach it, or . . .”
    He’s one of those annoying nitwits who never
finishes a sentence.
    “My wife got pregnant. Needed a job. I became an
employee of the Parks Commission.”
    “Good money, or is it like . . .”
    “I could walk into a Big Bee, buy a scratch-off
ticket, get three cherries and instantly make more
than I’ve ever made doing this. I weld, mainly.”
    “Funny the way it’ll go.”
    “Yep, it’s a regular rib-ticklin’ riot. My split sides
are always aching.”
    “I know how that goes, or sorta like . . .”
    Moron. I check up by a thatch of duckweed. A
possum had bumbled onto the road to avoid black
flies. Most get clipped by a fender and thrown clear
but this one got run over square. Hind end squashed.
Muzzle stuck with cockleburrs.
    “Tourist Thoroughfare Maintenance” the Parks
Commission designates it, gussying up what is simply
road-kill duty. The grim sight of Mr. Possum here,
or Mr. Racoon or Ms. Badger or Monsieur Skunk—
any critter who goes jelly-kneed when pinned by
arc-sodium headlights—is a guaranteed vacationspoiler. Call me the merry maid of the roads.
    I reach a shovel out the bed. Parkhurst’s kneeling
a foot from the creature. He fails to note the term
“playing possum” was coined after observing such
behaviour.
    “Hold a mirror under its snout,” I tell him. “Fogs
up you’ll know it’s alive. The fact it’ll have torn your
throat to ribbons will be your second hint.”
    He finds a stick. Stabs the possum’s flanks. The
animal rears up over its own squandered wreckage.
Crazed hissing noises. Its crack-glazed eyes make
me think of the Christmas tree ornaments Colin
made in grade school. Glass globes with tissue
paper paraffined over top. I found them years later,
shrunken tissue peeled back from the glass in veins.
The fucking kid pokes it again. Bringing my boot
down, I snap his stick. His face may’ve found its way
into the beast’s wheelhouse—jam it in a Cuisinart
for similar results—if I hadn’t shouldered him aside.
    “We wanted to see if it was alive. One poke beyond
is being an asshole.”
    The kill-box is the size of a laundry hamper.
Lightweight aluminum. Drill holes let the fumes go.
A slot-and-grove mechanism for bigger animals so’s
you can finagle their heads inside. Set the possum
in whole. Lock it down. Uncoil the hose. Fasten one
end